


Clad in green and something Other

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In exile, Darkleer finds himself playing host to a most peculiar guest. A series of most peculiar guests, to be precise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clad in green and something Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/gifts).



The first one comes in one night like any other of the rest of your life. 

You don’t bother to keep track of time, so it could be sweeps or perigees or centuries after you ran away and forsook all you stood for. You don’t care, really, because the world that you left behind is ruinous and laughably broken, playing with the fate of trolls the way it did with yours. You suppose it cannot have been that long, though, because Mindfang has yet to come back and tell you of That Woman’s death. Or perhaps Mindfang decided not to honor your deal after all and you’ll never know. Perhaps she is dead. 

You are still unsure why you took her offer, to keep… That Woman alive and safe, in exchange for an undisclosed favor in the future. Sometimes you think it would have been best if you had taken her with you, but then you remember the look in her eyes when you whisked her away under the Empress’ own nose. Such a foolish, reckless thing to do, and yet, even now, you cannot bring yourself to regret it. Sometimes, when you’re drunk on loneliness and yearning, you think the fact you’ve thus far gone untroubled by the Empire is a sign you did the right thing. For all you made a very public scene that night, in front of the Empress and the court and anyone worth something in the Empire, they never found you again. You have not talked to or been seen by another troll since the dawn you sent Mindfang away with half of your soul, watching her ship sink into the horizon for as long as you could withstand the glare of the sun. 

And then she comes, the first one, but certainly not the last one. 

Suddenly, she’s there, floating three feet off the floor. It was less of a crack and more like the sound of fabric tearing, as something dark and strange curls around her limbs. You stare at the strange apparition, clad in green and something Other. Her eyes are empty, hollowed out and black, like staring into the abyss, but then they melt into amber and rust, like any other troll’s. The strange woman continues to float where she is, arms hanging listlessly at his sides, hands holding what appear to be wands. She looks like a troll, if you ignore her rather dramatic entrance, with some rather impressive spiral horns atop her hair. Her eyes declare her a lowblood, but there’s something regal about her. Something dangerous. 

You entertain the notion that she’s an assassin of the Empire, but you doubt even Her Imperious Condescension would have someone like _this_ under her thumb. 

“Are you just going to stand there gawking?” She says imprudently, a foreign accent dragging her words, and you find your brow furrowing into a scowl as she deigns to touch her feet to the ground. “Could ask your question or just _say_ something, instead of just looming,” she goes on, sliding her wands into her belt and folding her arms over her chest. “Offer me water, maybe.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re a shitty host.” 

“I was not,” you find yourself saying, dry and deadpan despite the sheer unreality of the situation, “expecting any guests at all.” 

The woman snorts, and for some unfathomable reason, you find yourself going to fetch her some damn water. 

  


* * *

  


Her name is Damara, of the Meg’do clan. You don’t know what a clan is, but you’re not sure you want to know, because after offering her name and drinking greedily from a jug, she’d sneered and told you the name she’s better known for: The Handmaid of Death. 

“Not really true,” she says, sitting on your table – despite the availability of perfectly serviceable chairs – with the jug resting in her lap and her lips pulled into a demonic smirk. “Would be better said, Handmaid to the Most Noble Circle of Horrorterrors and Rightful Emissary from the Furthest Ring, but I guess it got lost in translation.” 

“It is quite a mouthful,” you say, dryly droll, and resist the urge to pluck her off your furniture and throw her out your hive. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“You wanna know,” she shrugs, and then shoves a hand under her skirt. You choke on a scandalized sound as she pulls out a long, thin pipe from… you don’t want to know from where. “Don’t really care if you know,” she adds, putting the pipe to her lips and taking one of the wands from her belt. She taps the tip of the pipe, and it instantly lights up, sickeningly sweet smoke stretching out to curl against the ceiling. “’s not like you’re gonna tell anyone.” 

“Quite,” you deadpan, left eye twitching ever so slightly, “I’d rather you didn’t smoke.” 

“And I’d rather the world weren’t a fucked up mess,” she shoots back, utterly unrepentant, and blows a ring of lilac smoke straight at your face. “Nobody ain’t getting none what we wish for.” 

You take a moment to try and decipher that, before settling on a very annoyed frown. 

“If you don’t care if I know,” you find yourself saying, barely resisting the urge to grind your teeth, “perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what you intend to do here?” 

She gives you a look like you just told her the best joke in the world, eyes glinting and lips pulled lopsided into a snarl that wants to convince you it’s really a smirk. You feel yourself twitching again. If you’re not careful, it might become a tic. Frankly, after the night you’re having, you might be entitled to it, though. 

“Nothin’.” And that expression, right there? That’s not an expression that means _nothing_. You tell her so. She has the gall to snort an acid laugh. “Can’t hear them around you. They ain’t so bad, but they never shut the fuck _up_. You mute that shit up, so‘s nice. You and your blood anyway, backwards and forwards, but you do better than them.” 

She blows another ring of smoke straight at your face. You struggle to keep yourself from coughing. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” 

But she only smirks and smokes, eyes half lidded and expression dreamy, and you realize there’s something more to whatever’s hiding inside the pipe. She spends the rest of the night sitting there, cradling the water jug to her chest and watching the swirls coming out of the pipe. After careful deliberation, you decide you can’t bring yourself to care about this madness and go about your business as if she weren’t there at all. At least til you’re about to eat your dinner and she demands her share. 

And that’s when your life starts getting weird. 

  


* * *

  


Damara stays nearly a perigee, that first visit, sprawled indecently on any surface that suits her fancy, periodically demanding water and food, and smoking her damnable pipe. Once or twice, you’ve caught sight of the inside of the jug, after it passed to her hands, and you could swear there’s wine there, rather than water. You choose not to question it and endeavor to ignore her to the best of your ability. You’re still not sure she’s not just another figment of your imagination, perhaps a fever dream to prove isolation’s finally gotten to you. She is, however, rather hard to ignore. 

“Made a deal, in the end,” she tells you, one hot season night, as you steadily skin a great antlerbeast with utmost care. “Hard to say no, when you’ve got your guts spilling down the floor and someone offers to make it better.” 

Your hive is really the ruins of an old settlement dug straight into a mountain. When you were young, eons and lifetimes ago, you found the place and summarily declared it your own. You were arrogant enough to put your sign above the doorway, as if that legitimized your claim, but then, your lusus was still alive then and you hadn’t really learned to fear your own temper. After the fateful night that saw you throw away your life for something you still can’t put to words, you retreated here, to the heart of the land that saw you grow, foolish and hopeful and heartbroken. There’s little for you to do, except hunt your next meal, carry water from the stream deep inside the ruins and continue to map the ever expanding maze. It’s a simple, worthless existence, but a traitor like you deserves no better. 

“There is honor in death,” you say, for the sake of saying something, because she’s annoying when she’s chatty, and even worse when you refuse to indulge her. 

“My elders said that, too,” she sneers, and taps the pipe lightly against the table. You refuse to look up and see what kind of improper mess her limbs are this time, instead focusing on gently peeling the skin off the beast. It’ll feed you for a week, and the hide will barely be enough to make you a new vest. “My elders have been dead longer than your Empress’ been alive, and I’m not.” There’s a pause. “Neither are you.” 

The knife shatters in your hand and the sound of her laughter rakes the inside of your skull. You abscond without looking back. She’s gone, when you’ve calmed enough to seek her out. 

You’re oddly disappointed. 

  


* * *

  


You sleep in one of the deepest corners of the ruins, in the soothing dark, lulled to slumber by the faint echo of running water. Sleeping dry means day terrors, though, no matter how much you try to soothe them with pleasant surroundings. You’ve been sleeping dry for so long, you don’t quite remember what’s like not to wake in the middle of the day with a scream trying to claw its way out your throat. 

Damara comes back one day, just like any other, while you’re in that murky, shapeless stage between sleep and awareness, deep in the thrall of fear. 

You reach out as if to grab a shadow, body drenched in cold sweat. 

“Stupid man,” you hear her say, staring at the vague outline of her body sitting at the edge of the slab you’ve taken for yourself. 

Then she breathes that same sweet smoke onto your face, and you can feel it rolling into your airsacks and beyond, turning everything to foam in its path. Your bones melt under her power and your mind sinks under its own weight. You dream of grasslands and hoofbeasts and wake up nearly at midnight, rested and relaxed for the first time in forever. 

“You really are a shitty host,” Damara tells you, sprawled on your workbench, expression indifferent. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for breakfast?” 

You consider asking, but fear she might actually answer you. Instead, you nod slowly, meaningfully, and head over to start a fire and sort out your meal. 

You never dream of blood and searing flesh and yowling screams and the sound of your soul splitting in half again. You can’t decide if you are grateful or not, either. 

  


* * *

  


Sweeps or decades later, you can’t tell which, you’ve grown used to the unexpected visits and the one-sided conversations. They can last weeks or hours, depending on her mood, but you don’t pretend to understand. Damara doesn’t age, doesn’t change. You’ve grown used to entering a room and finding her lying on the strangest places, limbs akimbo. Pipe always caught between her teeth and eyes half-lidded in an expression indifferently cruel. You don’t question it. You don’t question her stories and her taunts, or the way a flick of her wands seems to be enough to tug at reality and make it something else. You don’t question the ghost of something terrible always clinging to her skin, the sight of her hollowed out eyes and her empty words. Not dead, no, but clearly not whole either. 

And then, one night, just like any other of the rest of your miserable life, you hear the sound of fabric tearing as you’re knee-deep in the stream, spear in hand. You look up from your tentative attempts to catch lunch, to find the Handmaid hovering a few feet above the water, clad in green and something Other. You lower the weapon, head tilting slightly to the side as your hair rustles softly. 

“…you’re not Damara,” you say, words not quite accusatory. 

The woman’s smile makes her eyes crinkle in amusement. 

“You can tell?” She doesn’t bother to deny it, though her voice is a remarkable facsimile. 

“Of course,” you scoff, as if it were no big feat, despite the fact the horns and the hair and the dress and the wands are the very same. 

“No one else can tell,” she muses, lowering herself bit by bit, until her feet are dipping into the icy water of the stream. 

“Is that so?” You muse, words empty and tired and perhaps, just the barest hint sad. 

“Mhm,” she giggles softly, and reaches to stick the wands into her hair, so her hands will be free to tug at the hem of her dress to try and keep it dry. “How did you know?” 

“You’re smiling,” and now your words do sound like an accusation, and for the life of you, you can’t figure out why. 

Were you younger or more foolish, you would be mortified by the sheer petulance of your tone. 

“…and?” 

You shake your head, ignoring her confusion, and twirl the spear in your hand and going back to your business. You lance a fish perhaps a tad too hard, but at least you didn’t shatter the tip of the tool. 

“Damara does not smile,” you say, matter-of-factly, conjuring with ease the memory of smirks and grins and sneers, none of which ever came even close to reaching her eyes. 

“Huh,” this new Handmaid, who is not _your_ Handmaid, sounds bewildered. “I never noticed.” 

“I suspect,” you offer, sardonic, “that might not be the only thing you never did.” 

Her laughter is fresh and untroubled, lacking the cutting undercurrent of venom you’ve grown to associate with that voice. 

“Pretty much!” She offers you a delicate curtsey that makes your bilesack turn. “I’m Shrati Megido, Handmaid to the Most Noble Circle of Horrorterrors and Rightful Emissary from the Furthest Ring.” 

_No, you’re not_ , you don’t say, even though you feel a strange urge to do so, and instead tilt your head in acknowledgement. 

“Is it safe to assume then, that you have taken Damara’s place?” It seems fairly obvious, of course, but part of you still demands a confirmation before you can throw yourself into a proper sulking fit. 

“Sort of.” You hate the way she smiles at you, because it’s kind. You’ve long forsaken kindness. “Relative time and space, it’s complicated. I mean, she might still come here if she did it before she met me but after I met you, I don’t think that breaks the rules.” 

You arch an eyebrow, studying this child – for she is a child, so very clearly in a way that has nothing to do with the frugality of her blood against the terrifying longevity of yours – and remember the conditions to the deal Damara had made. You would not exactly trust Shrati to be a suitable replacement, even if the resemblance is uncanny beyond anything you’ve ever seen before. 

“The rules?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself, and throw the spear into the water again. 

“I think Damara got to make the rules, because she’s the first,” Shrati clears her throat, reciting from memory, “to respect the linearity of someone’s time if we want to interact with them on a regular basis, making sure not to put the causality and casualty governing their lives at risk.” 

There’s a long pause after that. 

“And that means… what, exactly?” You prompt, when it doesn’t seem she will be breaking the silence after that. 

“…I’m not really sure yet,” she replies, candid. 

You very nearly lose your step. 

“Ah.” 

Shrati laughs, easy and sheepish. 

“Don’t give me that look, I barely just started on the job.” 

“I can tell,” you say shortly, gathering your catch and walking out to the rocky shore. 

She follows, feet barely touching the ground, without asking. You say nothing else, as you go about preparing the meal, but that does not stop her from chattering on. It’s oddly like Damara, in a way, but with none of the sweet scent of her pipe and the callous contempt you’ve grown so used to. You suppose someone else, who was neither as worn nor as tired as you are, would surely question this situation at least somewhat. To a dishonored exile like you, however, it should make no difference. 

So you make sure it doesn’t. 

  


* * *

  


Shrati brings you sweets, when she comes visit you, despite your attempts to explain your distaste for them. She comes often, but never stays long, talking nonsense you don’t care to listen to, about wars and treaties and politics and things you once used to concern yourself with. 

It’s oddly fascinating, though, watching her wither away, her eyes growing hollow and her smiles fragile, like fractured glass. All you know about her is the myth surrounding her title, but unlike Damara, who seemed to have been hatched for the role, Shrati grows more and more brittle with each passing season. 

Thus, when the new one stands before you, you cannot even pretend to be surprised. 

“And you are?” 

The girl bows her head slightly, hair rustling, clad in green and something Other. 

“Dumuzi.” 

You nod back, accepting, and go over to add more water to your stew. 

  


* * *

  


They come and go, the perpetual parade of identical faces, identical horns, clad in green and something Other. Always alone, always seeking respite from their Masters in your presence. All vibrant and passionate in their own ways, all wasting away under the weight of their sworn duty, until they’re empty husks that are never seen again, once their replacement arrives. Always taking away the comfort of solitude from you and paying for it in wares you don’t quite know what to do with. 

A century after you last saw Shrati, you still find small caches of sweets in the strangest corners of your hive. Dumuzi brings you books, on history and poetry and things you vaguely remember once mattered to you, and you end up reading them for lack of anything else to do. After her comes Hammal, who asks questions without one true answer and forces you to think of higher things than the monotonous inertia of merely existing. Then there’s Barani, who insists on fingering your hair and telling you disjointed stories that only ever make sense when you take the time to figure out what happened first. Fryxus arrives one chilly morning of the dark season, throwing her wands on the floor and dissolving into an undignified mess of tears and frustration, after which she proceeds to spew complaint after complaint about all that is possible to complain about. 

And then there’s Helles, whose curiosity is the last thing to fade from her eyes, and who brings you trinkets to explain to her. Under her scrutiny, you dismantle bits and pieces of foreign technology – from other times, other places, other _worlds_ – and puzzle it back together again and again until she’s sated. 

By the time Aswini and her offerings of tea become part of your routine, your hive is full of strange bits and pieces of places and times you’ve never seen. Like a shore, where the sea of time vomits its stolen treasures without a care, your hive is a museum of the memories of dozens and dozens of girls clad in green and something Other, all swallowed up by the darkness perpetually licking their shadows. 

By contrast, Mindfang looks strangely plain and worthless, standing before you and demanding you repay your debt. She’s grown old and rough, like the jagged teeth of a beast, but even her theatrics strike you as pointless in the grand scheme of things. You dig out bits and pieces from your stores, not at all surprised to find you have all the supplies necessary to construct something to Mindfang’s specifications. She stays with you a sweep and a half, learning to use her new arm and learning all she needs about taking care of it. You know it’s a sweep and a half, precisely, because her preoccupation with time and measurement makes you realize how little you’ve learned to care about it, in the company of creatures for whom reality is merely a plaything. 

Mindfang offers to take you with her, once she’s ready to head back into the world. She talks about glory and adventure and reconquering your honor in the heat of battle. But all you can think of is the string of tired rust eyes and delicate hands clutching white wands, perpetually tormented by the songs of their Lords and Masters, and what would they do, without a safe harbor to hold onto themselves for as long as they can. 

You have no obligation, no real gain, and perhaps that is precisely why you see Mindfang off and promise to hide away her oracle if she swears to never look for you again. 

  


* * *

  


Centuries or millennia, you hunt and fish and tinker and make tea, entertaining an endless parade of girls, all of them surgically removed from history and placed above it as safekeepers of a mission that after all this time, you’ve not dared ask about. Shepherds of Time, the lot of them, the entire bloodline consecrated to the Gods beyond the Veil, the entire bloodline fierce and bright, yours to watch as they burn away into embers that are swallowed by the dark. You commit names to memory, the little gestures that break the illusion of their shared faces, their identical horns. And for every new link in a chain you dread might be unending, a little more of you is lost, eaten away by your own crusade to remember the nameless, honor the forsaken. 

The last one comes in one night like any other of the rest of your life. 

You look up at the sound of reality tearing to let her through, but you find you need to look down, instead. There, small even by the standard of her sisters in arms, stands a girl whose horns haven’t even unfurled yet. Obscenely young, younger than any of the hundreds that have sought refuge in your shadow throughout the ages, she stands before you, not clad in green and something Other, but rather wrapped in red and something Final. The heart you didn’t know you had shatters again when she smiles, because out of all of them, she’s the first one that looks _alive_. 

“No need to cry,” she tells you, holding one of your hands in hers and smiling like she’s never known fear in her life. “I’m okay with this.” 

She tells you stories, sitting by your side as she makes you feel the life leak out of your pores. But her stories are not of war or death or the Empire. She talks about her friends, about mundane things you’ve long forgotten are also part of life. Under her care, you realize your strength has long since left you. Under her watchful eye, you notice how skeletal your hands are, how little of you remains _you_. 

“It’s alright,” she promises, brushing hair off your brow, one night you’ve caved in on yourself so hard you cannot even pull yourself upright, “last one pays for all.” 

You close your eyes, and dream of ghosts clad in green and something Other. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, now you know - kinda - what the deal with Aradia is.


End file.
